


winter lives in my bones (it's all i've ever known)

by kuchikopi, tonberrys



Series: renascentia: between the lines [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black family feels, Death in the Family, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Hogwarts, Marauders' Era, POV Regulus Black, POV Sirius Black, POV Third Person, Pureblood Society, Regulus and Barty are Best Friends, The Black Family is Emotionally Stunted, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 15:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12192270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuchikopi/pseuds/kuchikopi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonberrys/pseuds/tonberrys
Summary: For the first (but not the last) time in 1979, tragedy strikes the Black family with the death of Orion Black. Pulled away from his studies at Hogwarts, Regulus is forced to process the sense of loss in the context of their family structure -- and in the context of his blood traitor brother's unexpected appearance.Or, Sirius and Regulus see each other for the last time before Regulus disappears.





	winter lives in my bones (it's all i've ever known)

**Author's Note:**

> As with most of our _Renascentia_ one-shots, this references events and details that occur in other parts of the _Renascentia_ -verse, but it can stand alone by itself, as well.

The bitter February air pricked at Regulus’s skin as a gust of wind caught his face and neck, chilling the exposed patch in a brush of tiny pinpricks. Quidditch practice had run long that day, but his mind felt sharper for all the zipping around he’d done, every sense attuned to that tiny snitch and the swarm of swooping forms around him. The chase was exhilarating, caught in a single-minded focus as wind roared in his ears, dodging bludgers and racing against a single opponent.

The seeker was a secret weapon, a chance to win even when the other team was pummeling you face down into the grass, and that was thrilling, every time.

Combing fingers through his windswept hair, Regulus looked around at his teammates, thinking it strange that soon, there would be no more organized quidditch matches in his future. He was not particularly close with any of his teammates now that the older boys had moved on, but Slughorn and Avery had agreed upon Regulus as captain upon Avery’s impending graduation the year prior, and reluctant though he had felt, it was not as terrible as he might have expected. The team had found their rhythm, as of late, even with some new blood joining, and he felt something like a sense of responsibility for his new quidditch charges. One of his dormmates, Baddock, had taken Avery’s place as chaser, and he was not half bad. For seven years, they had slept in the same room every night and somehow never spoken much about quidditch. The realisation had been jarring. Baddock was not aggressively purist, but as far as half-bloods went, he was not bad.

“We have a match against Ravenclaw next week. I will talk to Professor Slughorn about fitting in another practice in the next few days. Davis-” Regulus looked to the third year boy packing away the quaffles, auburn hair falling in his eyes, even as he swept it away for the third time since practice had concluded. Kneeling down beside the case, Regulus began securing the snitch still clasped tightly in his own hand. “Your timing was a bit off with the threading formation. Be sure to practice with Baddock before we meet again.”

“I will,” the boy said with a nod, pulling the last strap tight.

Standing up from the ground and calling his broom to hand again, Regulus turned to leave -- and it was then that he noticed Slughorn lingering by the stands with a strange expression on his face.

“Professor,” Regulus greeted with an acknowledging tip of the head, though he could not help feeling uneasy at the way Slughorn’s expression drew into itself with discomfort at the address. “Just the person I was looking for. I would like to schedule an extra practice for Slytherin this week. Davis needs to work on passing fluidly with Baddock. We’ve let it slide for too long, and the year will be over before we know it.”

“Regulus, my dear boy,” Slughorn began with a strange strain to the tone, “We can discuss practice later. The headmaster has a matter of great import he wishes to discuss with you.”

In an instant, panic started thundering in his chest, and though he knew the deactivated Mark on his arm was nothing more than a faded red etching, well hidden beneath long sleeves at all times, anxiety bundled en masse as he carefully crafted what he hoped was a look of mild interest.

“A matter of great import? What sort of matter?” Regulus asked, quite proud of how controlled his tone was.

“It’s best if we discuss it with the headmaster. Come along,” Slughorn said, patting Regulus on the shoulder in an ushering sort of movement. “Baddock, see to it that Regulus’s broom makes it safely back to the dungeon.”

 _’I’m going to Azkaban,’_ Regulus thought as a sudden onslaught of dread settled thick and heavy, scarcely aware of the broom being removed from his hand. _’They are going to expel me and send me to Azkaban, and I haven’t even done anything in weeks. Could they really know?’_

\--Had Sirius told them? Regulus could scarcely bring himself to think it, but perhaps his brother’s silence _had_ been too good to be true.

The walk to Dumbledore’s office was agonizing. By the time the door swung open to reveal the headmaster standing in the middle of a room with a small bowl of some sort in his hand, Regulus felt like he was going to be sick right there in the doorway. Again, Slughorn gently nudged him forward.

“Would you like a lemon drop?” Dumbledore asked, though there was an air of solemnity in place of his irreverent cheerfulness.

Regulus stared for a moment, stricken, then flicked his eyes to the wall of portraits where the likeness of his ancestor hung amidst the other headmasters, snoozing away. Phineas Nigellus Black had a portrait in 12 Grimmauld Place, too -- if the worst happened, would he alert Regulus’s family in time to intervene? There were no aurors present in the office, and yet...

“I do not think you require Phineas’s permission to accept sweets, do you?” Dumbledore said gently, in his way that made a person feel as though the wizened wizard was commenting on more than the present subject at hand.

Regulus looked back to the headmaster with a look of flushed discomfort, held for a beat before rearranging his face back to a mask of neutrality. “No lemon drop, thank you,” he answered stiffly.

“My boy…” Slughorn began again, turning to meet Regulus’s eyes with that strange expression on his face. “Something terrible has happened…”

Looking between the two older men, Regulus tried to piece together their expressions, their tones, their body language...If this was a crackdown on Death Eater activity, it was nothing like he would have expected it to be, but the tightness in his chest would not yet loosen. “What sort of terrible something?”

“It’s your father…” Slughorn began, looking to Dumbledore as the elder wizard stepped forward gravely.

“Orion Black was an unfortunate casualty in a recent attack on Diagon Alley,” Dumbledore began, but whatever platitudes he offered in those stretching moments to follow, Regulus had heard none of it over the sudden seize in his mind, the echo of a reality that was truthfully no better than the horror he had expected.

You could not argue your way out of your father’s death.

Again Slughorn patted him on the shoulder, pulling Regulus back into the present, and it was only then that he realised he was shaking his head.

“We have arranged to floo you home to your mother, tonight,” Dumbledore was saying, “Professor Slughorn will walk you to the dungeons to gather anything you would like to bring, and the professors will be working with you, regarding your assignments. You needn’t worry about completing them right now, but Horace thought you might like to have them.”

(Killed in an attack- What sort of attack? This couldn’t be happening-)

Numbly, Regulus nodded. Everything passed in a rapid blur, from then -- returning to the dungeons, changing from his quidditch uniform to clean and crisp robes, gathering his textbooks, scribbling a note to Barty and stashing it under the other boy’s pillow. Everyone was at supper now, eating and chattering and enjoying the mid-week rush and its oncoming slope to the weekend.

Staring at a roar of green flames flickering in the mantle, signaling it was ready for floo travel, Regulus wondered how his father had died, and whether it had been painless.

“Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, London, England.”

* * *

Upon arriving home in a whoosh of soot, the tension was suffocatingly thick, and Regulus had been only vaguely aware of his mother milling about, teetering on the edge of something Regulus did not want to be in the room to see. His parents had never been the affectionate sorts -- not to their children, not to each other -- and Orion Black spent more time in his study than with his family, yet a profound sense of emptiness lingered throughout the house in his absence. Now, it was just Regulus and his mother and Kreacher to stretch out and fill these gashed and gaping spaces.

All Regulus wanted to do was shrink.

* * *

When at last daylight came again, family began filtering in and out of 12 Grimmauld Place, starting with a slow trickle as his Aunt Druella and cousin Narcissa arrived mid-morning.

“It was so unlucky, what happened,” his aunt was saying from where she and his mother stood across the drawing room, “Is there anything you need, Walburga? Tell me, and it will be done.”

‘Unlucky,’ his aunt had said, as if they had misplaced some minor possession whilst out and about and could not recall where last they had seen it. Regulus should not be angry at her remark, he knew -- she had come to help and support them -- yet his shoulders tensed, eyes fixing on the tapestry where the death date had already been added to his father’s branch of their family tree. Perhaps his mother had added it this morning, perhaps as early as the day before. The finality of it made his knees weak.

A tentative hand pressed to his shoulder -- perhaps seconds later, perhaps minutes -- nearly jolting him out of his skin.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” Narcissa said in the gentle way she always spoke with him, pulling her hand back to thread her fingers loosely with each other. The tone had always been comforting, one that made him feel safe and cared for, one that was harsh towards those Regulus detested and reassuring in his moments of uncertainty. He could not say how he felt now as her grey eyes watched him, waited, expected something he did not know how to express.

“No one has really explained what happened,” he said quietly after a moment, a certain detachment pushing down the upset broiling in the back of his mind as he continuing staring at the tapestry in front of him.

“It was...poor timing and poor communication, I’m afraid,” she said uncomfortably. Though he wasn’t looking at her, he could see the movement of her eyes dropping, the slight turn. “There was an establishment next door that served muggle-borns, connected by a wall…” The implication hung heavy in the air for a moment, and again she placed a hand on his shoulder, this time ignoring his flinch. “Normally some warning would have been expected for someone of your father’s station. For all of us. He was not anywhere he oughtn’t have been... I...I do not know how it fell through the cracks, but I am so sorry, Regulus.”

Numbly, Regulus nodded. (1929-1979, the tapestry read -- 50 years old, dead before most of the generation before him.). The silence beseeched him to speak, to fill the air with something meaningless, to mend the open, festering wound and make this horrible reality feel better.

Or at least look better, from the outside.

“I see,” he said distantly, nodding his head again. “Terrible accidents happen, don’t they?” Though he did not meet her eyes, something in the way she lifted her hand and lingered suggested there was something she wanted to say. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it, right now. “I have a transfiguration essay that will be due by the time I get back. I should go work on it,” he said quietly, though he knew well that no professor was expecting full completion of those assignments upon his return.

Something in Narcissa’s face suggested she knew it well, too.

* * *

Morning gave way to afternoon; more family came and went. His Uncle Cygnus arrived just before lunch was served, along with his grandfather Pollux and grandmother Irma -- his mother’s parents, with plenty to say about noble sacrifices and extermination of the muggle scourge. Narcissa tried to meet his eyes more than once, and he felt a measure of guilt for avoiding her, but even if he lacked any motivation to eat for hunger’s sake, the thought of having nothing to distract him from the discussion was worse yet. He picked diligently at his food for a solid hour until they were finally dismissed to the sitting room, where he could draw the wall of his transfiguration text around himself. 

Sometime later, Narcissa returned home, replaced then with his father’s father: Arcturus Black, a stern and patriarchal figure. Regulus could not recall the last time he had seen his grandfather smile, but he was not likening Orion Black to a martyr -- yet, at the very least -- and for that, Regulus was grateful. The deaths of martyrs meant something, and Regulus could not find any meaning in the loss of his father when they could not even blame it on the vigilante Order of the Phoenix. The conversation had turned to more practical matters, now: to the aesthetic arrangements discussed earlier in the day, to accepting donations to the Magical Family Institute in Hogsmeade in lieu of flowers from the guests, to the eulogy his grandfather Arcturus would be delivering. Regulus heard his name come up on more than one occasion, and on some level, he recognised that he ought to be participating in these discussions, that he was an adult surrounded by adults, but if he opened his mouth, he was afraid of what might come out.

The conversation turned to his father again, as was the natural way of things, but Arcturus broke away from the group to approach the sofa Regulus had planted himself on some time before. Knowing that such direct proximity from his grandfather was wholly inappropriate to ignore, he tore his eyes from the page to look up.

“Come with me. There is something I wish to pass along to you,” Arcturus said in a tone that left no room for objection or debate. “There are far too many opinions in this room, as it is, and I can tell you are not actually reading that textbook. You have not turned the page in the past forty-five minutes,” he added directly, though his tone was even with observation, rather than the accusation Regulus might have expected.

It was mildly horrifying, nonetheless.

With a slight nod, Regulus marked his place in the textbook and set it on the table in front of him, following his grandfather out of the room. They walked until the chattering voices had faded to nothing more than a dull murmur coming in and out as their conversation ebbed and flowed. And then they continued walking, past portraits, past cabinets and shelves and rooms rarely touched.

“We are cut of a similar cloth, you and your father and myself,” Arcturus began, his voice austere but not unkind. “Perhaps not the loudest in any given room, but that does not mean it is not of paramount importance that our voices be heard.”

Regulus glanced to the side at his grandfather’s sharp profile, wondering if that was the sort of statement he was supposed to respond to. Given the subject matter, he thought perhaps it was, but Arcturus spared him the anxiety by picking up without more than a beat to process.

“You are the heir to this noble and ancient family, and just as I hold responsibility as its patriarch, you too are burdened with such responsibility. Even so -- it is with these roles and responsibilities that we are granted certain rights, however the rest might flap their jaws.” Regulus fought a twitch of the mouth, once again glancing to the side at his grandfather, only to find his grandfather looking at him, too, this time. It did not sound like the sort of thing he ought to be allowed to say, but he supposed as the head of their House, you were allowed to say whatever you liked. Perhaps that was the point. “You are still young,” Arcturus then continued, “but you must be confident in your esteemed position, must guide this great house towards what is best for them, whether or not they always agree. Your father was lost before his time, and I too will meet my end someday. When that day comes, I expect you to lead with strength. You are a Black, and the Blacks do not falter, nor do we cower.” A pause, brimming with purpose as their eyes met again. “Strength comes in many forms, Regulus, and a mild disposition is no excuse for weakness.”

The gaze was piercing and more than a little bit convicting, holding Regulus pinned like a bug to a board, but for the first time that day, he felt as though someone was saying something that had any degree of meaning at all. Easier said than executed, perhaps, for Regulus could not imagine using the phrase 'flapping their jaws’ to his mother no matter how old he was, he felt the miserable loop in his mind jar loose from its cycle, if only for a moment.

“I understand,” Regulus said, and when at last they rejoined the group some minutes later, he forced himself to meet their eyes in turn, however agonizing it felt after a day of passionate avoidance. Words of legacy were tucked securely in his mind, bolstering the foundation beneath his ever-tentative footing.

 _Strength comes in many forms,_ his grandfather had said. Regulus was a Black, and Blacks did not cower.

* * *

A light, dusty snow was falling on the day of Orion Black's funeral. Streaming inside and milling about the grounds were a mix of family, friends, and society acquaintances who were probably more interested than being seen than in honoring the dead. If one could be sustained on insincerity alone, there were a great many among them who would never need to eat again, yet here they all were, as always. 

Eyes fixed on one of the graves a fair distance from the hall, he saw his Great Aunt Cassiopeia, with that distant expression she sometimes wore. He could not make out the name she was staring at, but supposed it must be one of their family members. Or perhaps she just liked the flowers. It was hard to tell with her, sometimes. Regulus took note of all four of his grandparents huddled just inside the door of the service hall, talking with his uncle Cygnus and Abraxas Malfoy about something Regulus could not quite make out. He saw the Rosiers -- noticed Evan noticing him -- and Wilkes, Avery, and Mulciber had all moved away from their own parents to gather as three by the pillar framing the doorway... Even Snape had made an appearance, talking quietly with Lucius Malfoy.

Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus noticed someone approaching -- a frame slight and familiar. Without a word, Barty stepped up next to him, crossing his arms across his chest and looking to the large, imposing service hall where the funeral would soon begin. Regulus thought he should probably thank his friend for coming, for going out of his way to get permission to leave school grounds when they were in the thick of their NEWT classes, for not trying to pull anything out of Regulus when talking felt exhausting… yet it was in the subtle relaxation of his own shoulders, the fleeting eye contact, the tiny tip of Barty’s chin that rendered such expressions unnecessary.

When it was time for the service to begin, they parted ways, and Regulus took his place beside his mother, staring forward at the casket. It was beautifully crafted, with dark wood and sparse -- yet intricate -- carvings lining the edges, but all Regulus could think about was how it was his dead father inside of that box, and just how safe any of them could really be, if this war had touched even Orion Black.

Regulus was not the first to lose a loved one in this war -- lost lives, lost freedom -- but the closeness shook him in a way he would not have expected. _We are invincible_ , he had once thought, _The Blacks cannot be touched, and we will reshape this world._

Their world was being reshaped, but it seemed more and more disfigured, every day.

Eyes trained forward and locking on his grandfather’s temple -- as close as he could manage without risking actual eye contact -- and he let the words flow over him, firm and impersonal. Arcturus Black could say whatever he wanted, yet even he spoke of his son in abstracts. ‘Martyr.’ The word was not used, yet it was somehow implied. Regulus could not guess if anyone believed it, but he did not dare look around the room. Regulus felt lonelier in that moment than he had in quite some time, listening to his grandfather whilst surrounded by friends and family and society supporters. Orion Black had stepped back from their lives a long time ago, a shadow of the man who had invested in them as young children, but his absence left a hole Regulus had been unprepared for. The domineering guidance of his mother and his cousin Bellatrix had guided Regulus's choices, steering him into the thick of battle, but he had felt more understood sitting silently beside his father with a book, or practicing a variety of protective wards, than he ever had casting a curse.

Reading books could not block an explosion, and protective wards did you no good when you were not within them. Your blood did you little good when it was no longer inside you.

* * *

Sirius slipped out of the hall as quietly as he'd slipped into it. There were those who doubted that Sirius Black had the capability to be subtle, but no one survived as a prankster under Minerva McGonagall and lived to tell the tale without at least an ounce of it. They couldn't always use James' cloak, it felt like cheating and asking him for it today would have meant having to explain what he wanted to do with it. He didn't want to fight that battle today. He didn't want to fight any battle. 

He didn't know what exactly he did want, but he knew he didn't want _that_.

The service wasn't over, there would be still more pretentious and sycophantic chatter about the role model, the symbol, the ever so important name but there was nothing to be said about the man. Sirius couldn’t claim to have known his father particularly well, but he didn’t suppose many of the people he could see there could lay claim to have known him well. (Well, backs of heads he could see, he wasn’t at a great angle but he dared not go all in. Death Eaters at a funeral were still Death Eaters.) His father played it close to the chest, always had even before his further withdrawal once things began to change. Perhaps his father's parents, or Aunt Lucretia, since they’d known him a long time. The image of him as a child was difficult to imagine, with only Regulus coming to mind.

Outside the hall, he hopped a few graves and winced at the cold. He had no intention of being seen, but he wasn’t ready to clear off yet. Whatever he’d come for, he hadn’t gotten it. He’d only frustrated, the slight tremble to his hands more due to annoyance than to cold even if it was fucking freezing. He was not dressed appropriately for this. He hadn’t thought it through. He snorted to himself mirthlessly, trying to light a tip in the wind with little success. It was the story of his life, wasn’t it? Didn’t think it through. Maybe Regulus had gotten a little of that too, given the last time he’d seen him he was a prefect playing at being a Death Eater. 

A million and one purist families and their mothers began to scatter out into the open air and leave quickly, or head off to what he assumed would be burial. Not everyone stuck around for that. If they were just paying their dues, they could piss off and not stand in the cold like an idiot. They had the right idea. Why he wasn’t pissing off himself was something he couldn’t quite explain. There were more than their fair share of Death Eaters milling about. With a sneer of distaste, he noticed Snape with Malfoy holding his choke chain as usual. The idea of him being there made him feel irrationally angry. He’d shut the door on his own terms. 

(Technically, he hadn’t even stopped to shut the window but the metaphor works if the literal doesn’t.)

With that amount of people milling about, some who probably hadn’t even really seen him since puberty had kicked in, he didn’t feel in much danger. He didn’t like that Bellatrix wasn’t in view, but he could see her mother. That was probably why he couldn’t see her. It was also why it took him longer than he expected to spot his own mother and he fidgeted to calm the sudden spike of adrenalin. Something about battle instincts and their parallels should probably be examined there but he couldn’t be bothered with it all. 

Besides, the old hag was alone. That was more unusual than anything else. He’d expected Regulus to be her shadow today. Where was he? He’d looked for him inside, but the problem with having a family that size was that in a sea of very similarly looking people, it was hard to differentiate. Especially given that Regulus had always been a decent bit smaller than most, save for some of the girls. Might’ve helped him be a decent seeker but it made him hard to find in a crowd. Given the day, perhaps he’d appreciate that. There was no one here who looked to wear their pain openly, if they had it all, but Regulus also had an antisocial personality. The mix probably meant that he didn’t want to be disturbed even more so than usual. It was why he thought he’d be hanging onto their mother’s coat tails; the woman’s glare could probably stop even Voldemort in his tracks enough to rethink an approach. 

He didn’t seem to be milling around. Sirius imagined him doing so and dismissed it outright. He’d hate it. After all, their father was a rubbish martyr. It hadn’t been the Department of Law Enforcement, hadn’t even been their lot, but their own stupidity that screwed them over. If it’d been anyone else, Sirius may have found it funny. It didn’t feel very funny. It felt like shit and it still felt like shit. 

The longer he didn’t see him, the more he thought to himself that this was the real reason he wanted to come. Not to look at a coffin with a bunch of assholes and listen to pretentious bullshit but because of some long held instinct that made him want to check in on his younger brother. A dangerous thing for a vigilante to have for a Death Eater; an understandable one between an elder and younger sibling, regardless of scorch marks.

It took a little more manoeuvring to get back in the hall than the first time. People may have moved on for the most part, but he didn’t fancy getting into it with a straggler. He slipped into the main room again, surprised and not surprised to recognise the last person sitting in it. He knew he he had two choices now: he’d seen him, the back of his head anyway, he could go and try to deal with things on his own terms now or he could walk in, walk right up and sit down. The latter was the stupider move. The latter could result in a firefight. The latter was what he’d told himself he wanted to avoid.

Naturally, the latter was exactly what he chose to do.

* * *

When Regulus heard footsteps approaching from behind, he thought perhaps Barty had wandered back in, missing the cue that Regulus was taking the moment to himself. No one was perfect, he supposed.

The steps drew nearer, and nearer still until the approaching person lingered beside him and sat on the bench. Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus could tell the person was not blonde and thus not Barty (perhaps, then, some people were at least a little bit perfect), but when he turned his head to see Sirius, of all people, his entire frame locked in a stare. He could not decide if there was no one he had expected less, on the day of his father’s funeral, or if there was no one he grudgingly hoped for more -- but whatever that feeling was, it was a very strong one, that much was certain. 

“You came,” Regulus said quietly, turning his eyes forward again, though they settled on nothing in particular.

"I didn't do it on purpose." Sirius looked him over, as if searching for something. He seemed to decide he had found it, since he didn't get up and leave immediately. His eyes turned to the front, taking a deep breath in and out. 

"You came to a funeral...on accident?" Regulus asked evenly, fingers drumming lightly on his knees. His brow lifted then, as if to punctuate to the question, yet he did not divert his gaze from the podium where their grandfather had been standing, not long before. Regulus wondered then if Sirius had sat through the eulogy as Arcturus Black shamelessly crafted some ill-fit image for the very agenda that had carelessly brought this about. Regulus was a Death Eater himself, and even he knew the eulogy was rubbish, but it was obvious enough that it didn't matter if it was rubbish so long as everyone was willing to swallow it.

Uncomfortably, Regulus pressed his lips to a line and dropped his eyes to the floor.

“Would that be better or worse than attending simply to be seen attending?” Sirius responded evenly. He didn’t need to elaborate. They both knew there were people there only to say they had gone or out of a sense of duty. “Besides, no one saw or there’d be a ruckus already.”

"Probably for the best that they don't. It was a pretty stupid move, coming today," Regulus conceded in a tone more strained than snide, sparing the flick of a glance to his brother before dropping his eyes to the floor again.

"It's not their father that's dead," Sirius shrugged, more forcefully than strictly necessary. After all, it was their father, not simply his. "A little stupidity is excusable. Unless you’d like to tell someone?"

Twisting his mouth into a frown, Regulus shook his head. He knew he ought to be angrier at the way Sirius so casually included himself in the context of their family, that it was a more-than-opportune time to stew on the betrayal Sirius had thrown so carelessly in their faces when he had left them, but he was _tired_ , felt suspended in a moment that was outside of himself, outside of what made reasonable sense when one was quite literally surrounded with a horde of Death Eaters just beyond the door -- or perhaps worse, their mother. Even if he hated it, the suffocating loneliness lifted, if only a little bit, at the knowledge that his stupid brother would show up with anything resembling a sincere respect (or at least a sincere _something_ ) for their father when it would be so easy to spin this day into chaos.

"One dead family member is more than enough," Regulus said quietly, tightly, and with a particularly intense stare at the floor below.

“No matter how much you glare at it, I don’t think the ground will actually swallow you.” Sirius said, following his line of sight. Perhaps he didn’t want to address the idea, since he certainly no longer came under the category of family despite sixteen years of being so, or he was simply drawing attention to what Regulus was doing. “Besides, you’d think it was the vigilante or the Death Eaters that would get knocked off first. Bit of a shock. Needed to see it.”

Regulus's entire frame seemed to tense, his face drawing to a furrow. It _ought_ to have been someone else -- vigilantes, Death Eaters, anyone else who chose to throw themselves into this mess on _purpose_ so at least there could be some reason for it...but such thoughts were a trap, Regulus knew, a trap that went against the overriding narrative, and however sage their grandfather's advice of _bold and unapologetic speech_ might have been, there were some things Regulus could not say. "Well, at least you were able to satisfy your curiosity," he muttered distantly.

There was a beat of silence. Hesitantly, Sirius moved his his hand over to cover his brother’s but only for a moment as he seemed to almost instantly think better of it. He attempted to cover the awkward movement with fidgeting and clearing his throat.

"It was bullshit," He said, bitterness clouding his tone. "They didn't say anything real."

The air was thick with discomfort -- a discomfort Regulus saw on his brother's face, when at last he dared another sideways glance. Somewhere beneath the strain, he felt another small nudge of comfort that at least one other person in the room had felt dissatisfied with the picture painted, even if it was his blood traitor brother -- and thus ought to have been a blatant indicator of which opinions he ought to be frantically _avoiding_. "No," Regulus began quietly, clasping his hands together as he leaned forward to prop his forearms against his knees. "No, they didn't."

“You would know better than I,” Sirius admitted, sparing him a sideways glance. The tension didn't seem to dissipate. “Even if sixteen years is a long time to be someone's son, I don't think I knew him very well. You were more his.”

Regulus was not sure how to respond without giving into the snide temptation of pointing out that perhaps Sirius might have known their father a little better if he had stayed longer than sixteen years, but he knew the moment he did, any tentative truce was likely to tear to shreds -- and however pointedly he had avoided this very conversation for days now, in the moment, he was not quite ready to thrash it.

Perhaps even more uncomfortably, Regulus wasn't so sure how well he had known their father, kindred spirits or not.

"Seventeen years doesn't feel long enough. I didn't..." Regulus started -- hesitated for a beat of his own, then started again. "It probably sounds silly, but I never really thought about him dying. Not that I didn't expect it would happen someday, obviously, but I thought it would be a long time from now." (Regulus had expected he himself might die before their untouchable father, given the circumstances, but the thought only made his stomach turn...)

"That's the war for you. Doesn't leave anyone untouched." Sirius shook his head, trying to clear it. "I thought it'd be me first. I was just hoping it was doing something more meaningful than saying 'hey guys, watch this!' as McKinnon once suggested, but it seems I've been beaten to the punch for a pointless death. That's why it's hard. At the end of this, everyone goes home and gets on with it but that study will never again be used." He spared another glance at him. "Except for you, perhaps. You might choose to use it if you survive this."

Regulus crinkled his nose uncomfortably, unable to meet his brother's eyes. "Indeed..." That _if_ weighed heavy, tensing the tiny muscles around his eyes, clenching at his chest and buzzing at the back of his mind. Just days ago, Regulus had been half-certain he would be carted off to Azkaban without trial -- a fate that hung above him threateningly if he didn't _die_ first, and with just months until he was expected to consistently participate in the Cause with full devotion, he honestly could not say which fate he thought to be more likely. Neither struck him as particularly appealing, as it was, but there was no turning back now... "I suppose time will tell."

“Regulus….” Sirius trailed off, discomfort heavy in his voice. It was clearly not the response he'd been looking for. “Why aren't you with Mum?”

Once again, Regulus’s attention was focused on a rather unremarkable spot on the floor. He could not quite say if talking to Sirius made easier or more difficult to put a finger on why he was not glued to their mother’s side -- or to try and express it, for that matter -- but it was a feeling he did not much like, whatever the reason for it. Quietly, he settled to say, “I…” _feel suffocated?_ “...needed some space…” 

“Because of the likelihood you just sat listening to his eulogy with the person who killed him?” Sirius asked, puncturing some unseen rule not to discuss that.

Regulus tensed, mouth pressing to a hard line. Sirius was not wrong, of course -- that very fact had been boiling at the back of Regulus's mind from the moment Narcissa had explained the circumstances of his father's death, but that unspoken understanding of silence had been a paper shield between what he knew and what he was obligated to say. The reality of it was something that ought to be said, yet wouldn't be and couldn't be. No one was going to make him acknowledge it out loud because no one else wanted to either.

No one except for Sirius, of course.

“You should probably leave,” Regulus said without looking up, his voice quiet, strained, perfectly even. “The burial is likely to start soon.

Sirius ran a hand over his face and sighed heavily. “Yeah, okay.” He took one more look at the front silently, before standing up. He stilled, apparently not done yet. “It wasn't always shit, right? There was a point that he seemed to not need to fortify himself behind the study door? Seemed maybe not happy to have...us around but content enough to let it happen?”

“Yes...I can confirm there was a time like that,” Regulus responded, sitting up to lean back in his seat again with visible relief as Sirius let the taboo remark drop. It was strange, to hear his brother acknowledging a time when he didn't detest their entire family, but Regulus supposed the sentimentality of death was getting to his head. Circumstantial though it was, he would take it as it came. “I do believe he cared, in his way. Everything just fell apart so spectacularly.” 

Sirius smiled humourlessly. “It’s still falling, kid.”

Steadily Regulus took in a breath, and steadily he released. Agreeing with Sirius about anything always felt like the wrong thing to do, but if there was anything he was willing to concede about the current state of things, it was that they were absolutely awful. “I know it is.” 

"It'd probably help if we both stopped making stupid decisions," Sirius said. The air was heavy with the implications of it, that there had been too many stupid decisions to name and now they were having to try and live with the consequences of them. Or more accurately, not die from the consequences of them. "But at least if this is it, this stupid decision was worth it. I don’t want the last memory I had of seeing you to be… _that_.” The angry, emotional emphasis on the word said it all: he didn’t want it to be in Death Eater robes in the middle of a firefight.

Regulus shifted uncomfortably, words caught in his throat as he nodded. He knew well what Sirius was referring to, and he, too, could do without that memory and the arguably poor decisions tied to it...but some decisions couldn't be reversed, as the Mark on his arm reminded him all too aggressively anytime they were beckoned to meet the Dark Lord. He had little choice, save to make the best of it. Sirius wasn’t likely to understand, but when had he ever?

Sirius opened his mouth to say something else, but stopped and turned his attention to the door. "There's someone on the steps," He whispered, shifting weight from one foot to another and seemingly trying to decide (again) if he should be running out when things were getting difficult. “I gotta--”

The door creaked open behind them, and Regulus stiffened in his seat, seeing Sirius move from the corner of his eye but not daring to turn his head. _Please don't be Mum or Bellatrix,_ he thought desperately, _Please don't be-_

“Regulus?” 

Immediately Regulus released the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. That was definitely Barty's voice. No surprise visitor was ideal, but Barty, he could manage without bloodshed. Standing up and smoothing the lines of his robes, he spared a glance back towards his friend, but it was Sirius that Barty was looking at, and with an expression as cold as Regulus might have expected. It was the sort of reception he ought to have given his brother, too, truthfully enough, but convicting self-hated could wait at least until he passed through those doors, back to reality.

Uncomfortably, he slipped past his brother without a word.

Sirius also seemed to let the tension go. There was a lot less explaining to do to a peer than to anyone from his direct family. He gave him a cool look in response, before barging past them both hurriedly. 

Barty steeled himself against the bump but granted it no comment. "Are you alright?" Barty asked as he looked to Regulus, shifting his chilly expression to something warmer and altogether more solemn.

Nodding, Regulus shoved his hands into the sleeves of his robes. "Yes and no." As they stepped out into the snow, crisp winter air whirring gently around them, he pressed his lips to a thoughtful line -- and strangely, he felt his steps lifting a little lighter, his words coming a little easier, though he could not put a finger on when the feeling had first taken hold. The pain and frustration had festered, ripped open -- it was not quite numb, that wound, but he would need to box it away with the rest if he was going to survive this war. He did not have the luxury of social criticism when that criticism was within their own circles, however infuriating the carelessness might be. Perhaps that is why his grandfather's eulogy was so jarringly insincere, so seemingly at odds with the advice he had imparted... "About as well as can be expected."

Barty mirrored his friend, arms burrowing deep into his sleeves to clasp at the elbows. As if sensing the lift in some unspoken gag order, he continued, "Don't take this as disrespect for your loss, but I've been fantasizing for days that it was my father instead of yours." A brush of scorn swept across his face, brief though it was.

"If only," Regulus muttered softly as they descended down the short set of steps. Further along the path, he could see the others gathering for the burial some distance away. Taking a moment to glance backward at the door to the service hall, then to the side at Barty, he spoke again, solemnly. "Thank you for coming," he said, words heavy with implication -- for the funeral, and for the dangerous scene Barty had interrupted (as well as his seeming willingness to pretend as though he had not.) Regulus felt mildly nauseous at the thought of anyone else catching him talking to the blood traitor -- his family was _all over this place_. Any of them could have easily come in at any moment. Pushing it so long -- speaking to Sirius at _all_ \-- had been nothing short of a strike of madness, and they had scraped by, just barely.

"Of course," Barty said lightly, and his own fleeting glance in the direction Sirius had disappeared off to suggested he had caught the meaning. "Besides, it's been a bit lonely in the dorm. Baddock was rambling on about practice and how he was safely delivering your broom and had a very important part in training the third year on the team. Davies? Davidson?"

"Davis," Regulus corrected, lifting his brow as he looked over at his friend, and despite himself, he felt a tiny tendril of amusement flickering in the otherwise dreary day. The feeling felt more than a little bit guilty, but he couldn’t quite stamp it out.

"Thought about turning him into a weasel to shut him up. Or maybe some buzzy bug. I've been practicing my advanced transfiguration, you know, I could probably do it. What's a good animal to represent brown-nosing? Symbolically."

"Don't turn him into anything until the quidditch season is over," Regulus chided mildly, though the treacherous twitch of his mouth betrayed the smile he was trying to smother.

"So it isn't a no, then?" Barty's own expression cracked into the smallest hint of a smirk.

Regulus bumped his shoulder, jolting a soft snigger out of his friend, and again they fell to comfortable silence as they drew near to the burial ground. Once again, a twinge of pain twisted in his chest, and he tried not to think of his father lying stiff and still in that casket. Tried not to think about how one of his own 'comrades' in this dragging war had done it, and how he could never allow carelessness to be an excuse if _ever_ he stumbled upon the knowledge of who was responsible.

He stared right through the casket as it lowered to the ground, and with arms wrapped tightly against his torso, he said his silent goodbyes.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is pulled from "Winter Bones" by Stars.


End file.
